


Winning Hand

by dragonofdispair



Series: Dark!Praxus AU [4]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: War for Cybertron
Genre: ... ish?, Energy Field Sexual Interfacing, M/M, Negotiations, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:00:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23569477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonofdispair/pseuds/dragonofdispair
Summary: WFC Dark!Praxus AU. Before, Jazz thought he wanted freedom. He naively thought that if he escaped Prowl, he'd have it. Now he knows there's no such thing as the sort of freedom he wanted and his priorities shifted.Now Jazz wants to win.
Relationships: Jazz/Prowl
Series: Dark!Praxus AU [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/263785
Comments: 14
Kudos: 34





	Winning Hand

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally going to be the followup to a longer story actually describing how Jazz and Prowl met and first became entangled in this 'verse. That story may still come out, but I've finally admitted that holding onto this until it's finished isn't helping. Have some morally ambiguous J&P!

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.

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A lot had changed since Praxus. Prowl hadn’t been lying. His debt was gone within a century but he’d owed Nightwatch so many other sorts of favors by the time the last shanix was paid that he’d never be free of him. For all that the mech had one of the twistiest processors on the planet, though, he only wanted one thing from those who owed him…anything really. Money, favors, silence, allegiance…any debt. Wiser now in how the economy of favors worked, Jazz had decided there were worse placed to be than under Nightwatch’s thumb and continued working for him.

In return, the Intelligence Director had brought his political weight to bear on Jazz’s behalf and gotten him a job as a cultural investigator in Iacon. Dream job. He travelled to places and talked to people and danced to music all over Cybertron. And if he forwarded a copy of his findings to Nightwatch as well as to the Iacon Hall of Records… well that’s what an intelligence agent did.

That was how he’d met Orion.

Orion was a policemech — In Iacon, where the police may not have been free of corruption, but it wasn’t so thoroughly institutionalized — with both curiosity and compassion beyond his station. He was easy to talk to and easier to befriend. With the lessons of Praxus sunk like talons down into his spark, Jazz had cultivated that friendship. All the ties that bind, bound the mechs on both ends. Even extortion was a two-way relationship; friendship, even more so.

Which is why Jazz was  _ here, _ at the edge of a bombed-out safe house that had once been Nightwatch’s office. One of his offices anyway. The one Jazz knew about.

The one he’d died in.

To those outside SpecOps, the Intelligence Division was a giant black box. No one knew how its chain of command (if it even had one) worked. The Director was the only visible part of the box. The only gateway, portal, terminal…whatever. Through him, Zeta Prime’s requests went in; through him, the resulting information came out. No one saw how the delicate network of loyalties, alliances and favors moved information across Cybertron.

So when a Decepticon suicide bomber had walked into Nightwatch’s office and neither of them had walked out, no one had known who the mech’s successor had been. Not until Jazz had stepped forward and defied the tradition of reporting directly to the Prime to stand at Orion’s right hand.

“Orion is the last of Prima’s lineage,” had been Nightwatch’s last words to him, delivered via an encrypted data chip Jazz had received almost a decaorn after his superior’s passing. “After Zeta, your friend will be Prime and that loyalty will serve Cybertron far better than anything you might owe to a doomed relic of a dying Golden Age.”

Nightwatch had always been prone to dramatics, but that didn’t mean he was wrong. And Jazz owed Nightwatch and Orion too many things to count and Zeta Prime not a Primus-damned thing.

Jazz would have dearly loved to have known where the mech had gotten his information about Orion, but that hadn’t been one of the secrets the dead Director had passed on to his successor. A personal favor or informant. There was no way of knowing how many of those had been lost along with Nightwatch’s spark. Centuries’ worth, at least. Jazz’s own comparatively tiny circle of personal debts owed to him couldn’t compare.

One of the secrets Nightwatch  _ had _ left for Jazz had been everything he needed to purge Intelligence and the Autobot military of Decepticon sympathizers. Ironhide had nearly shot him, and Red Alert had in fact attempted to bring him up on charges of treason, when he’d refused to hand it over. Jazz may have only held the position for a short time but  _ he _ was the Intelligence Director and  _ he _ , not Red Alert, not Ironhide, would decide how that information would be used.

Some of the mechs on the list only needed to be reminded to whom they owed loyalty or debts. Others could be brought to heel with a delicate mix of enticements and threats; loyalty was leverage freely given. Thank you Praxus for that lesson. A few would be brought in to be publicly arrested, tried and sentenced by a military tribunal. Many of the rest would need to be killed quietly, either become the victims of accidents or simply disappear into the dark of the night. Whatever was left over after that would be carefully isolated and used to feed false data back to the Decepticons. More fell into that category than Red Alert would tolerate, if he knew of Jazz’s plans, but sometimes more than one source of information would be needed before the enemy acted on it, and Red’s sincere attempts to finish what Jazz “started” would keep even Soundwave believing his agents hadn’t been compromised.

“Jazz,” Mirage’s voice crackled across their encrypted comm line, “I’ve lost contact with the sniper drones. I do not, repeat, do  _ not _ have a visual.”

Then there were the ones who were just  _ complicated _ .

“It’s alright Mirage. Withdraw to a safe distance and await orders.”

A pause, filled with the static of unfulfilled possibility. Then, “Plan B?”

More like Plan H. But then he’d never deluded himself into believing this would ever be resolved by anything but a face-to-face confrontation. The effort had to be made, but tricks and traps wouldn’t work on this mech. “Yeah.”

Another pause, this one apprehensive. “You should withdraw. I'll make contact.”

“Negative.”

“But—“

“No ‘buts’ Mir,” Jazz interrupted. Mirage meant well and Jazz could see his point. They were friends, as close as two Intelligence agents could reasonably be to one another without a fragging lot of mutual blackmail. And Jazz was the Director. It was questionable at this point whether Intelligence would survive the death of a second one of those this close to losing Nightwatch. “Ain’t no one can do this but me.”

“I formally object to this course of action.”

“Noted,” Jazz smiled thinly. “I die and you can say ‘I told you so’ in the Well.”

He shut off his comm before Mirage could respond, checked he had everything, EMP grenades and grappling hooks and even a dimensional decimator, then transformed his arm into one of his two weapons and moved into the ruins.

It was pure luck that he spotted the other mech first, crouched under a blackened and twisted overhand. His spark quickened, then settled as his HUD confirmed a target lock.

After, he’d refused to return to Praxus for any reason, but he’d still put a priority on learning to interpret Praxan frame language. He saw the instant Prowl became aware of his presence, those sensor panels going from scanning his surroundings to fixed on where Jazz crouched behind what was left of a low wall.

Prowl moved first, tossing a handful of pins out to bounce and clatter and finally settled on the ground. Detonator pins. Good thing he hadn’t depended on Plan B.

“Don’t matter,” Jazz called back, “Got eight rockets. This range… I only need one.” He didn’t mention the dimensional decimator that would rip a tiny hole in space and time and would give him a few extra seconds to get a few more rockets off, until Prowl was nothing more than a slag-stain on the charred metal flooring.

Up-down-out a slow, thinking rhythm. “Understood.”

Prowl slowly came out into the open and Jazz mirrored him. Prowl hadn’t come unarmed, and Jazz could see the prongs of his TechVolt splay out, then settle in a stretch that left the weapon ready to fire and Jazz mentally let off a curse. That was exactly the right weapon to use against an opponent armed with a rocket cannon. And given the fate of the sniper-bots, he’d bet the mech’s second weapon was a gear shredder. Slagging tacticians. Outwardly calm as they both were, anyone observing wouldn’t see how they reacted to each other as they came close enough for fields to brush against sensors. Like the coronae of a pair of stars, their EM fields exploded into a dense cloud of  _ want _ . Love, dense and dark snapped through every synapse, an electrical storm front of  _ want-need-desire  _ boiling over the stronger and darker emotions.

At least that hadn’t changed, Jazz thought. It made this all a million times more dangerous, as it always had, but he may not have to actually shoot the fragger today.

Silence stretched and twisted and snapped through the ionized air between them. Prowl’s optics never left Jazz’s visor and Jazz’s weapon never wavered. They could have kept their EM fields close to their armor, avoided showing how they affected each other but what was the point? They both knew what was happening, both aware as their fields twined, twisted and caressed the other’s. Words were superfluous in the face of that sort of reaction. Nothing needed to be said.

For normal mechs, anyway. Neither of them were normal. There was plenty to be said.

Finally Prowl dipped his panels in acknowledgement of those things that must be spoken aloud. “I’ve paid my debts to Intelligence. My other debts were to Nightwatch himself and are non-transferable,  _ Director _ .”

Jazz snorted. Just like a Praxan to think of shanix owed first. But then, they had reason, didn’t they? Shanix was the most visible, mostly easily exchanged form of debt there was and Praxus literally drowned its citizens in shanix owed. “Yeah. I got the receipt.”

“Then why are we talking? You do not need to be here personally for an assassination.”  _ Lust _ buffeted Jazz along with the accusation and he couldn’t help but respond with a wave of  _ desire _ that caused nearby pieces of debris to momentarily glow blue-violet with plasma fire. It left his senses reeling and his fans spinning frantically, loud even against the lightning crack of the fire, but he kept his target lock.

“Checking up on an asset,” Jazz kept his response light and airy and  _ completely _ free of the feelings that literally crackled between them. “Y’know, making sure you know what you’re getting yourself into before I burn your file.”

No outward reaction to the threat from Prowl, but another sort of  _ interest _ slid along Jazz’s EM field.

“Megs and Shockwave ain’t anything but a pair of psychopaths,” Jazz continued, puzzled at this new layer of emotion Prowl displayed. It seemed he liked being considered an asset. Or being threatened, and really, who could know which it was with Prowl?

“Some say the same about me,” and still that  _ interest _ caressed him as their fields sparked with more violent lusts. Prowl obviously desired Jazz on multiple levels — even more levels than he had when they’d last parted.

“I’m one of them,” Jazz said simply and Prowl barked a genuine laugh. “But I can’t let you join the Decepticons. I know you. You use people. Everyone. You think you can use Megatron too, and when you’ve gotten what you want, you’ll get rid of him and maybe that’s true. Maybe you can. But true or not, I can’t let it happen.” If anyone could resist Prowls particular brand of manipulation, it would be Megatron’s sort of megalomaniac. The sort that believed everything was owed to him and he owed nothing in return and couldn’t be bound by favors or loyalty or debt or even shame and secrets. Maybe Prowl could work with that, but Jazz wasn’t willing to bet Orion’s life on it.

“So do it,” Prowl hissed through the  _ whirring _ of his own fans after a moment, “Do what you came here to do and fire that rocket because that’s the only way you can stop me.”

Probably true. The emotions arcing between them wouldn’t stop him. Prowl did care. Jazz had never doubted his capability to love. It burned bright and hot and undeniable around them. That had always been what made him dangerous. It would have been easy to resist him had it been false; sparkling’s play to kill him now had Jazz thought he’d ever been deceived. No. Prowl’s love was real. But Prowl was also an inveterate manipulator, a tactician constantly arranging and rearranging a network of loyalties and favors and threats as he worked toward some private goal. Even love was a tool to be used like any other sort of leverage.

Even a lover would be commanded, manipulated, sacrificed. Especially if it was mutual.

Nightwatch had  _ files _ — had files  _ within _ files — dedicated to figuring out just what Prowl was after. It wasn’t something so straightforward as money or power, though he collected both, nor as whimsical as recognition or admiration or even love. It hadn’t stopped the Director from using Prowl in turn and taking his information like he did any other agent but NIghtwatch never understood what made Prowl tick. Nightwatch had never  _ belonged _ to Prowl. Not like Jazz had.

“Maybe I will shoot you,” Jazz said after a very long pause, “but first I want you to answer me this: you said once that I was a weapon and you would do anything to wield me, if only I would let myself be wielded.” Prowl’s  _ interest _ snapped between them, literally a lightning strike that left both their systems heated and overcharged and Jazz had his answer. He still asked, though, because this was too important to be left unsaid. “That still true?”

“Jazz…” Prowl took a ragged breath and composed himself. Gold optics still burned. “I would have done anything then, when you were only soft unshaped metal, a dancer with the potential to become a weapon. Now? Now you have forged yourself into a blade without peer and there are no longer words for what I would do to have you.” Jazz nodded. It was about what he’d expected. It could have been a threat, and likely was, but for whatever twist of unfathomable motives that had prompted Prowl to let him go all those years ago. “But you made your feelings on being  _ used _ ,” Prowl snarled out the word like a curse, echoing Jazz’s long ago rejection, “clear before we parted. Why revisit this now?”

“You’re a valuable asset Prowl,” Jazz kept his voice calm and level, and again felt that flicker of  _ interest _ ; Prowl definitely liked being considered an asset, at least by Jazz, “and like you said: the only difference between leverage and loyalty is what kind of pressure needs to be applied… and if it’s worth the cost. To keep you, have you, to wield you in turn, I’ve decided it’s worth your price.”

Prowl’s field stilled and Jazz almost stumbled, his own pushing against a field that suddenly was no longer buffeting him, but Jazz refused to abandon his target lock. Not until he’d brought Prowl successfully to heel. Because if he couldn’t, then Prowl couldn’t be allowed to leave and the only advantage Jazz had right now was that  _ he _ was ready to pull the trigger and his target wasn’t.

“What exactly are you offering?” And this time that  _ interest _ caressed him with only the tiniest shadow of  _ lust-love-desire _ following in its wake.

“I will be your weapon and in return I will have your loyalty, oathsworn to Orion Pax.” There! There was the first flicker of surprise. Fragger’d expected Jazz to claim it for himself, and that would’ve been a mistake. Prowl  _ was _ loyal to his tools, but it wouldn’t have stopped him from doing whatever the Pit he wanted regardless, wouldn’t have brought him to heel. Only someone who wasn’t Prowl’s, who owed him neither debt nor loyalty nor silence nor even love, had the tiniest chance of holding him. “And the first thing I will do is deliver all that is his to command into your service and protection.”

Once again their fields crackled against each others, a storm of  _ interest-lust-desire-yes-submit! _ that made the sharp edges of the ruins around them glow again with purple fire, this time more than just a flicker-flare of desire, and Jazz knew he’d guessed right. There was Prowl’s deepest desire, laid out in all the right words, and Prowl  _ wanted _ , had wanted for more centuries than Nightwatch could have possibly imagined, and now it was within his grasp.

He just had to submit to Jazz first.

“Agreed,” Prowl finally whispered through the noise of their fans, the crack of the purple fires, and the not-quite-audible hum of the electricity that slid across their plating.

“Swear it!”

Prowl knelt, ignoring the rocket cannon that tracked his movement in still-blatant threat, his own weapon twisting back into his arm and optics lowering to the ground in front of Jazz’s feet. “Service and loyalty, from here to the furthest star, from now until the end of time, this I swear to Orion Pax.”

“And I,” Jazz responded finally allowing his voice to go husky with desire and smiled at the way Prowl, still kneeling, shuddered like he’d run the thinnest of wires across his sensors, “am yours, to love and use as you will. I am your weapon, from here to the furthest star, from now until the end of time. This I swear to you.”

Prowl made an aborted movement, as though to reach out and claim the giver of that oath now then thinking better of it. Gold optics met blue visor, full of lust and ruthless promise and he said the words that had been etched into his spark since ignition yet had never dared to say to any other of his pawns. “Mine.  _ Mine _ to protect.”

Jazz nodded sharply and lowered his cannon, transforming it back into the general circuitry that normally made up his arm, target lock disappearing from his HUD. As much as he’d like nothing better than to jump the mech’s struts, claim and be claimed in turn, he agreed that now was not the time or place. He had a promise to keep, for one. He turned his comm back on and chuckled; it seemed that Mirage had been muttering a constant stream of angry — oh-so-angry — things about Jazz this entire time.

“Mir,” he interrupted one particularly vicious jab about his probable interfacing habits that he was  _ really _ glad Prowl couldn’t hear given the  _ want _ that still flowed between them; fragger was likely to react,  _ over _ react, violently to any perceived threat to Jazz right now and Mirage was too valuable himself that Jazz could afford to sacrifice him to Prowl’s oath bound instincts over an insult, “Meet me at the rendezvous with the transport.” His visor never left Prowl’s optics. “Commander Orion’s new tactical advisor needs a ride to Iacon.”

He held out his hand to help Prowl stand and for the first time in centuries, they touched.

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.

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End

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
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